Page 42 of The Unlikely Pair
Dogs mean tracking.
If our pursuers have dogs, we’re in trouble.
Judging by the unrestrained panic in his eyes, Toby seems to have come to that realization before me.
“We can’t outrun a dog, Harry. They’ll be able to find us wherever we go.”
Bloody hell.
I need to devise a strategy for how we’re going to escape the dog. But first, I need to deal with Toby. He’ll be absolutely no use if he’s in panic mode.
“Are you implying a dog will be able to track us because I have a particular stench, Webley?”
Toby blinks a few times at me before he replies, “Your cologne would have left a trail a mile wide for them to follow. That, and the whiffs of brimstone emanating from your pores.”
It’s worked. Insulting me has calmed him like it did yesterday. I’m not sure if it is my favorite technique, but it’s undeniably effective.
“And you smell of fermented liberal values, so there’s no doubt they will be able to track you too. Perhaps you could finish up your ministrations to my feet quickly, as I feel I’m going to need functioning feet soon.”
Toby takes a shaky breath but follows my suggestion, efficiently taping a gauze pad to each of my heels.
I stuff my feet back into my shoes, my brain whirling.
Dogs. The bark had been some distance away, but I can’t help worrying they’re coming closer by the second.
Toby is right. We can’t outrun them.
“We’re making the assumption, of course, that they are our pursuers rather than rescuers…” I trail off because the idea of trying to escape rescue isn’t very palatable.
Toby’s eyes widen at that thought.
“Wouldn’t rescuers call out? Or make themselves known?” he asks.
A dog barks again, the sound sending a chill down my spine.
“Let’s be prudent and assume it’s not Lassie and some friendly rescuers,” Toby says, his voice urgent.
“Then we have two options,” I say. “We can try to climb out of the dog’s reach and hope we are not spotted. Or we can take to the river, float downstream, and hope they lose our trail. What do you think?”
I’m well aware there are risks associated with either option.
“Take to the water,” Toby says instantly.
“We’ll get wet,” I say.
“That is generally what happens with water,” Toby replies.
“I meant, it’s a risk of hypothermia if we get wet in an environment where we can’t easily get dry.”
“We’ll be sitting ducks if we climb and they spot us. Or sitting pigeons, or whatever types of birds nest in trees,” Toby says.
I deeply believe now is not the time to begin an in-depth ornithological discussion on roosting birds. Instead, I scan the riverbank, searching for the safest place to enter the swirling water. I spot a sandy slope, pointing it out to Toby. “This way. We can wade in here.”
Toby follows me without hesitation, clutching the survival kit in his arms.
There’s another round of barking, closer this time, grating against my nerves.
We don’t have much time.
